Epilogue
by Miranda15
Summary: The War is over. (HD)


**Epilogue**  
by Rachel Robles

Harry was sitting on the heels of his feet, an act oddly reminiscent of his earlier years. Especially when he remembered the Sword of Gryffindor covered in ichor and lying across his lap.

It was over.

Who was he, now? The foundations of his life had built up to this moment since he was eleven- whether he chose to admit that or not. And now it was here in perfect clarity. The deserted Ministry courtroom that Harry had yet to leave had served as the perfect setting for the judgment for the one who had been responsible for the deaths of so many. Wizard and Muggle alike.

He supposed he should be terrified. The uncertainty of the future he hadn't really expected to have lay before him like a vast cavern.

Plus there was the fact that he was now a murderer.

But instead of the dread that he had grown accustomed to weighing down every fiber of his being, he felt remarkably…  
…light.

Why? He had lost friends, he was homeless, he was a killer, and there was no guarantee that the attempts on his life would stop simply because Voldemort- and the war- were over.

So why did he feel an emotion akin to excitement pulsing through his veins?

"Potter."

Harry knew that voice well, and wondered idly how long it had been calling him. Wasn't there a time when the drawl had attempted to sound menacing? When his surname had been something spat out as if it were a curse, or worse?

He turned and regarded Draco making his way towards him. Saw as well as felt his cloak swirl around both of them as he stopped with inches of him and watched him grimace at the pile of what was once Voldemort as if it was nothing more than something distasteful a malicious house elf had left behind.

"It's over." He heard himself say.

"Hmmmm. Yes. Don't need to be Trelawney to assume that one, Potter."

He took a step forward and flipped the right side of his cloak open as he twirled and sat himself between Harry and the remains in one elegant and fluid movement.

Draco was nothing if not elegant.

Harry cracked a wry smile which served to cause Draco to arch a brow.

"You know what they say, Malfoy."

Draco stood on his knees and snaked a slender hand forward like the Slytherin he was until his cold fingers were pressed against the pulse point at Harry's neck.

"You're already an ass, Potter." He murmured softly as his surprisingly gentle hands continued to roam over various areas of Harry's exposed skin for broken bones or other serious injuries. Despite his preoccupation however, his eyes were slightly crinkled as if resisting the urge to keep from truly smiling.

"Ron and Hermione?" He knew it wouldn't be Bad news, he would have felt it in his very marrow if it was.

"I just left Weasley seeing to the remaining Death Eaters with Lupin and some Aurors. Granger's off attending to the fire in the Ministry Library with that Tonks bird… you know that she'd throw herself under a Gringott's cart before she'd let any harm befall a book."

Seemingly satisfied that Harry appeared to have only minimal surface cuts and scrapes, he took hold of the Gryffindor's chin and gazed into his pupils with a surprising intensity.

"Who's Minister of Magic?"

Wasn't this wrong? Shouldn't it be Ron or Hermione be sharing this particular moment of his life… giving him the Pomfrey treatment simply because they cared? Certainly not Draco Malfoy, confirmed Death Eater.

Yet the fact remained that the eyes boring into him with such concern were a warming gray, and not a studious hazel or a chocolate brown.

For all intents and purposes he should be shying away from Draco's touch, not moving in closer and grabbing hold of the wrist that now held his face.

"As of a week and a half ago, the Minister is one Arthur Weasley. My name is Harry Potter, and until term was suspended I was a seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My favorite color is blue, and I love Quidditch. Your name is Draco Malfoy, and for nearly eight years you tried to make my life hell. Then you approached Dumbledore and Snape about being a spy for the Order, and you gradually became somewhat more tolerable. And you can stop checking for a concussion Malfoy, because I don't have one."

Draco sat back and gave him an odd and decidedly un-Malfoyish grin while relinquishing his hold.

"Not a concussion. Just making sure you weren't in some sort of shock. Wonderful exposition for those just now being introduced to the story, by the way."

Harry smiled… the second time he had smiled since delivering the death blow that had saved the world. He wondered curiously how much the present company had to do with that.

"Not in shock. Just… absorbing."

"Ahhhh. Absorbing what, may I ask? The mass hordes of vapid fangirls that can happily put off suicide due to your existence being inflicted on humanity even longer? What type of polish to use when shining your  
Merlin medal? Buying out Gringotts to make room for the riches they'll toss at your feet? Looking into a new breed of fowl strong enough to carry your sizable fan mail?"

Harry surprised them both by snickering a genuine chuckle.

"No. Just that my parents are now avenged."

He saw the two spots of color brighten on Draco's cheekbones in his version of a blush.

"Well, there's that." He said lamely.

Harry exhaled a long breath and set his forehead against Draco's shoulder with a nearly audible thud.

"What am I going to do with my life now, Draco?"

The only sound for a time was their rhythmic breathing intermingling on the damp air. Surprisingly cool… especially when one took into account that various parts of the Ministry were still on fire.

It was awhile before Draco responded to his almost rhetorical question, his breath stirring all the hairs at the nape of Harry's neck. Without even looking up he could hear the surprise in the tone.

"Whatever you want, Harry."

Harry raised his head at the words and locked eyes with Draco once more.

"Say it again," he said to make sure he hadn't misheard.

He didn't need to clarify what he meant, and the other boy complied with obvious bemusement.

"Harry."

It was possible that simple word proved to Harry more than anything how much his life would now be different.

Harry and Draco had warmed to eachother over the past couple of years. After all, how could you be thrust on the same side of Good versus Evil without forming some sort of camaraderie?

It had been a wordless and guarded sort of acknowledgment that started after the secret Order conferences Dumbledore held. A nod in the halls- obviously if nobody was looking. Actually holding a door open so it wouldn't slam shut on the other fellow- if no one else was around, of course.

Then it had progressed to making a stupid face behind Snape, a roll of eyes behind McGonagall. He couldn't recall when they started talking, but eventually their interactions had progressed to having fairly decent verbal conversations. Not about anything serious. 

_"After all," Hermione said with huge saucer eyes, "It may seem like he's sticking his neck out, but there's still every reason to believe he's a double agent. There are ways for dark wizards to get around even Veritaserum. We would do well to keep watching our backs around him."_

At which point Ron demanded to know what exactly a double agent was. This was closely followed by an expressed desire to learn more about the Muggle known as Bond, James Bond. 

And they didn't talk about serious matters, not at first. No... it was all about Quidditch, Professors, other students, and Hogsmeade trips… all the trivial things to ignore the numerous elephants residing in the room.

Besides, despite Ron's incredulous disbelief, Hermione's worries, and his own memories… perhaps it was still possible that everyone deserved a second chance. Even Malfoy.

It was actually Draco who changed the direction of their conversation, however minor. During one of their late night social chats in the Astronomy Tower, the subject had come up of the last Hogsmeade weekend.  
Draco had leaned back in his broad-backed chair and steepled his long fingers, smirking at Harry over them.

"Was it really your head I saw floating around the Shrieking Shack during third year?" He said it in the carefully detached manner of someone commenting on the comfort of their straight jacket.

Harry did his best to bite back both a grin and a burst of laughter. He didn't see what good could be done denying the Slytherin at least that much information, especially since this was unusual if only for the mere mention of their rocky past.

Besides, it would be funny.

"Yes," He replied easily. _My straight jacket is fine, thank you, but I prefer padded walls._

Draco's eyes had narrowed into slits and served to remind Harry immensely of their more antagonistic  
encounters… although he was smiling. 

"I knew I wasn't going mad."

He said it in such a voice that Harry wondered how long the 13-year-old Draco had actually thought he was going 'round the bend.

At that they had blinked in silence and eachother and doubled over in a prolonged fit of laughter. It was the first time Harry had ever heard Draco's genuine laugh, and was pleased to note that there was nothing special about it at all. It sounded like any other boy's laugh at Hogwarts: Ron, Neville, even himself.

When he had calmed down somewhat he noticed through his own mirth that Draco was making a face at him.

"What?" Harry managed to choke out.

"You have a really weird laugh." Draco observed immediately before ducking the sofa pillow chucked at his head. 

After that the meetings became somewhat more frequent, but Harry's guilt at seeing less of his housemates was minimal. After all, Hermione was wrapped up in being Head Girl, and Ron was (finally) wrapped up in being with Hermione- going so far as to attend her Prefect meetings with her.

But eventually there were later conversations with Draco that weren't nearly as light-hearted in tone as the Shrieking Shack discussion.

One night Harry was tapping a feather quill against his lip, pretending to concentrate on finishing his parchment for Binns, when really he was watching Draco.

Draco had his head propped on a fist and lay flat on his stomach on the Tower's carpeted floor. He was flipping lazily through a Quidditch magazine and his crossed ankles swung in the air in almost childlike fashion.

"Yes Potter, what is it?" He drawled in a bored tone without ever looking up.

Rather than pretending to be abashed, Harry decided to risk it and plunged ahead.

"Why did you agree to be a spy for the Order?"

Draco closed the magazine and pushed it in front of him as if he had been expecting this exact question for some time… nevermind that they had never so much as hinted at this topic during prior conversations.  
He sighed and turned his head so that Harry couldn't see his face. 

"You remember the night of the last take for the Triwizard Tournament, don't you?"

Harry felt his limbs become heavy with a brief wave of nausea.

"You know I do." He said coolly.

"Well, now that you've had some time pass since then… how do you think of it now?"

Harry didn't think he had the proper words until he realized he was already speaking.

"Like something in me had died. That, despite whatever the future brought or what I had thought before, I'd never be the same person again. And that alone terrified me, because I didn't know if it would be for the best or not. It was just a fact that I no longer had any control over. Maybe I never really did."

In the pregnant silence that followed he realized that Draco had turned back and was studying him once more, and the two regarded eachother for a moment. The only sound was the slow and methodical ticking of the Tower's grandfather clock.

"Let's just say that at some point I had a similar night." Draco flatly stated.

Harry allowed him to leave it at that.

After all, there was no need to press further.

Life went on in a certain manner for some months. Hateful words and barbs would be slung for show in front of the rest of the student body, but they lacked their original malice. After such encounters, notes could be found safely tucked into the elbow of one of the fourth floor armories. Hasty scribbles jotted down between classes, but they served to somehow strangely reassure just the same.

_"That crack about the cupboard? Ouch. You owe me a butterbeer for that one, Malfoy." -HP_

"Implied accusations of incest today was it, Potter? Strange, but for all the nasty activities I've partaken in I don't seem to recall that one. Perhaps I'm repressing?" -DM

"Since you're Snape's pet in the first place, would you mind trying to get him to ease up somewhat? Taking away 20 house point simply for calling you an 'amazingly stupid and ugly git'? I suppose if I had included 'inbred' as I'd originally planned he would've made it 30. –HP" 

As the waging war grew stronger outside the castle the silly scribbles became longer and shifted themes, until the armoured guard stood as the lone citadel to the boys' main method of communication.

One day Harry had pulled out a small glossy sheet with a strip of paper where he had expected a regular message.

His curiosity overwhelming him, he unfolded the strip first, where he read:

_"Found this in a drawer in her drawing room, as she doesn't seem to know that I'm aware of the false bottom. Thought you would find it interesting. Feel free to keep it."-DM_

Not knowing at all what to expect Harry flipped the photo over and felt his breath hitch. Sitted on an alcove he recognized from the Hogwarts gardens were a teenage Lily Evans and Narcissa Black.

Narcissa had her left arm draped over Lily's shoulders and was gazing at the camera with a smirking expression that Harry had only ever seen on her son. Lily was shaking her head vehemently as if horrified by something her companion had just said, yet one arm was still encircling Narcissa's waist while the other was raised in an attempt to muffle her own laughter. Her emerald eyes that she had passed down to her own son sparkled between the fingers she was peeking through, and he could see that his mother was genuinely happy.

Turning the picture over he saw written on the yellowed backing in an elegant yet fading scrawl:

_"Me and the goober. 1973."_

Trying to come to terms with what he now held, he realized that there were more words on the back of Draco's note.

_"No, she hasn't mentioned anything to me."_

Harry looked again at the women and realized that he wanted to remember how the sun played with their hair and made it shine. Perfect shades of Gryffindor red and Slytherin silver.

Tucking the picture into his pocket, he ripped out a sheet of paper from his own leaflet and with his pen took his time in writing simply, _"Thank you." _and placed it in the armoury.

There was no reply later, but Harry knew the message had been received just the same.

But being friends with Draco had its obvious disadvantages, to say the least. Harry found it somewhat unsettling that as his fondness for Draco grew, so did his concern for the Slytherin.

Around March of that year the secret social rendezvous grew even less as there was an influx in Armoury correspondence and Draco's visits alone into the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night. _Wasn't there a time in the not-too-distance past where that place had made Malfoy positively rigid with fear?_

Draco never offered what happened at these Death Eater gatherings, and Harry didn't ask…. Realized he didn't care to know. So long as Draco was alright and reported everything back to the Order, that was enough. 

But one night in particular, he had found himself questioning his stance.

After lights out, Harry had gone sprinting up the spiraling staircase as fast as his lithe body would allow.

Draco had been conspicuously absent for classes and meals that day, and so in mild concern Harry had checked for a note. It was there and had been smeared, the words somewhat shaky, but it was still legible nonetheless.

_"It's been done." –DM _

Harry knew without questioning what "it" was, and with his heart attempting to beat out of his chest like a rabid snitch he barreled through the door to the Astronomy Tower as if he'd hit a wall of ice.

Draco was already there as he knew he'd be, sitting on a windowsill. His head on his knees and his arms encasing them, he turned at Harry's dramatic entrance and looked at the Gryffindor with a dazed flatness that nearly brought him to his knees.

Any doubt he might have had as to the content of the paper was dispelled in that resigned expression. 

Forcing his feet to move one after the other he gradually lowered himself next to Draco at the window. Malfoy was whiter than a sheet as he continued to regard Harry back, his mouth a bloodless cut lined in his face.

Wordlessly Harry reached for him and grabbed ahold of his left arm, and Draco let him. He rolled up the sleeve to Draco's robes and found what he was looking for halfway up the forearm: a black imperfection a stark contrast to the perfect gleam of white.

Harry hadn't realized until this moment that it was in fact possible to hate the Dark Mark and its creator any more than he already did, but now he knew that it was. 

He kept his breathing regular for Draco's sake, the only outward reaction of the fury simmering within him was a slight tightening of his grip.

"Well," he finally breathed and brought his gaze back to Draco's expectant expression. "No more drunken trips to Hogsmeade for you, Malfoy. But at least it's not a butterfly."

Draco's face went slack, the silent _thank you_ written on every feature.

"I thought about it," He said back with a strangled smile. " But Goyle's already got one."

They continued making jokes for the next hour, attempting to make light of a very serious situation. When they finally did part ways, it was difficult to recall who was trying to comfort who.

Yet with what they had been through and all the revelations that lead them into their occasionally uncertain friendship, there was one aspect in particular that remained the same.

At some point Harry had changed the way he referred to Draco. Most of the time it was still "Malfoy" but eventually he tossed in a few casual "Draco"s to see the reaction. When these failed to withdraw any epileptic fits from the other boy, the "Draco"s grew in number until they became close to rivaling the "Malfoy"s.

But Harry was always, **always** "Potter".

"See you, Malfoy."

"Later, Potter."

"Draco, I have some pumpkin juice- want some?"

"You know I don't drink that swill, Potter."

"Hey Draco, I heard Ernie was snogging Pansy in the Prefect's Lounge. That true?"

"What a gripping life you do lead, Potter."

Harry told himself it was merely so he wouldn't slip up in front of the other Slytherins, but deep down he knew that the real message was undeniable:

_We may be friends now, but I'm not ready to let go of everything entirely. I'm just not there yet._

It wasn't until this very moment, with his head now resting on Draco's collarbone, the sword of Gryffindor between them and the corpse of Voldemort beyond, that Draco had finally called him simply, "Harry."

Harry decided he rather liked it.

Suddenly a stray thought randomly popped into his head, and he spoke as suddenly as it occurred.

"Are you going to keep the Manor?"

It was a valid inquiry, after all. With Lucius dead over a month and Narcissa missing, only Draco was left as the sole Malfoy heir. What would he do with all that space?

So much time passed that Harry thought Draco hadn't heard him until he answered in carefully clipped and measured tones.

"I haven't decided," he managed to ground out.

Harry let it pass, and raised his head to take in the room fully for the first time. It was surprisingly intact considering what it had been through this evening: intricate tapestries of past trials still wove their way through the ordinately decorated rafters high above them, and the numerous rows of absurd seating stretched out seemingly for leagues. 

_Funny,_ Harry thought. _All this and I still think Draco and I are probably the most complex things in here._

Taking Harry's movements as an indicator, Draco slowly swept to his feet and held out a hand.

"Come, Harry. We need to figure out what you're going to wear- you can't greet your mobs of ravenous fans looking like this. It'll start a fashion trend that I'm unwilling to be affiliated with."

Harry cracked a lopsided grin. In an odd way, Draco's mocking sarcasm helped to serve as a soothing balm for parts of his soul that had yet to heal from the past 48 hours.

"Oh, I don't know, Draco..."

He swept the sword from his lap, slapped his palm into the proffered hand and allowed himself to be yanked unceremoniously upwards.

"…I think you'd look good covered in slime."

"Don't even joke about such a thing, my nerves are shot enough as it is."

Their eyes met in oddly inappropriate silent laughter before Harry broke it to stare at the heap of Voldemort.

"We should be calling in Dumbledore. He'll be wanting to perform all those ritual things for keeping the dead from rising."

"True, but it's just a precaution. He's gone."

Was it the words or the speaker that had him so convinced?

Draco nodded towards the sword gleaming against the stone floor.

"You're forgetting something."

Harry turned halfway and regarded it.

"I don't need it anymore." He replied with more than a hint of certainty.

When he realized that they were still holding hands, Harry let them drop.

"Let's go." He motioned towards the exit with a tilt of his head and started walking.

He heard Draco's footsteps not even two paces behind him fall into step with his own, but after about six strides he felt them lurch to an abrupt halt.

He turned to look at Malfoy quizzically, and felt as if he had been doused with a rather sizable bucket of ice water.

Draco's breathing had suddenly become erratic and gasping, his arm clinging to the front of his robes as he swayed dangerously on his feet. He looked back at Harry with the gray eyes as large with alarm as Harry had ever seen them.

"Bugger." He intoned with some feeling a split-second before his eyes rolled back into his skull and proceeded to crumple to the ground.

Harry was there to catch him in a flash with all the lightening-fast reflexes of a Seeker and lowered him as gingerly as possible the rest of the way to the floor.

"Draco? Draco, what's wrong?" He heard his own voice shout in a commanding fashion that he did not feel. 

There was no response forthcoming other than Malfoy's ragged breaths and a seizure type of convulsion that seemed to bring Harry out of his own body. The most terrifying aspect was that Draco's eyes were open once more and looking back at him with a coherent and lucid clarity he didn't understand.

Suddenly remembering who he was, he reached into the folds of his robe for the wand that had been out of mind since half-way through his last battle when it had been traded in favor for a sword. Waving it over the length of Draco's body he intoned the anti-pain spell that Lupin had saw fit to teach him weeks ago, as it sadly came in handy for his fallen friends on the battlefield.

Draco's body ceased its violent shuddering and the raspy breathing became more regular. Lines of sweat were now beading down his face, but somehow the mouth was twisted into a large and grateful smile. He spoke three words, and other than sounding somewhat out of breath the drawling voice managed to remain much the same.

"Thanks. The Mark."

Harry shifted so that his position of cradling Draco became less physically awkward- his left hand now supported the blonde head while the right was currently wrapped around Draco's thin body. As he had nearly two years ago, he soundlessly raised the sleeve of Malfoy's robes and felt a cry strangle itself within his throat.

The Dark Mark on Draco's skin was now a vivid red, and it took Harry no time at all to realize that the red was Draco's own blood. As he watched in horror the veins that surrounded the skull and its snake stood raised against the skin as if straining and shifted color from an ethereal green to the darkest black and remained that shade.

It was slowly spreading, and there was nothing the amazing Harry Potter could do but look on helplessly as Draco Malfoy was being poisoned from the inside. 

"But he's dead." Harry nearly spat in the impotent rage that now possessed him.

"I know, but it's still classic Dark Lord, isn't it? _'Thanks boys for all the chanting and maiming and  
such, but seeing as how I've snuffed it for good this time I'll be seeing you in hell.'_"

Harry gazed at Draco in astounded wonderment.

"You knew this would happen."

The gray eyes were remarkably sad despite the levity.

"Of course I did. You don't get to be a Slytherin without straining your eyes by reading all the fine print, and the same goes for fake Death Eaters."

Harry felt his emotions come to a boil, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming.

"And Dumbledore _let_ you?" And then more desperate a pleading, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco stiffly raised a hand and placed it on the lapel of Harry's robe. He made a sound in his throat that was apparently his attempt at a laugh.

"Don't go blaming that poor old bastard, Harry. Crack a few eggs, you know? Plus you've known me long enough to know that nobody _"lets"_ me do anything. As for not telling you… well, you know how you make yourself insane trying to change things that are inevitable- this is just one of them. Although I will admit that I had allowed myself to hope that it would take a day or two to kick in."

Harry's own breath was now coming in ragged spurts as he wildly pictured raising Voldemort from the dead just for the satisfaction of using every Unforgivable Curse ever invented before killing him again. Draco's voice back in the present suddenly was softer than Harry had ever heard it.

"I knew what I was doing, and I would do it again."

Draco's features rearranged themselves, and Harry couldn't believe that he was demonstrating his trademark smirk at a time like this.

"Funny though … I would've pegged you Gryffindor lot for the whole throw-themselves-on-the-sword type. Weird."

Harry screwed his eyes shut and felt his jaw clench. "How much time do we have?"

Both took note of the terminology, and let it pass unmentioned.

"I'm guessing a few moments at this rate. And thank you."

Harry's world swayed sickeningly as Draco had. How could they possibly fit a lifetime into a few moments?

Once he registered the later part of Draco's statement, he gazed at the other boy at a loss.

"'Thank you'? For what?"

"For not saying that I'm not dying."

Draco's eyes shut tightly and his body arched off the ground without warning, but he did not cry out. The healing spell for pain had done all it could, so Harry in his grief did the only thing he was able and held Draco tighter as if he could ward off the poison with his mere presence and sheer will.

When Draco came back to himself once more his eyes shone with a strange light, yet remained incredibly alert.

"Do you remember how you refused my hand that first trip on the train?"

Harry had no idea why that particular memory tugged at his heart and pulled at the corners of his mouth, but it did.

"Yeah. I also remember how you were the first Hogwarts student I ever saw in that robe shop. You were such a nasty git."

Rather than deny the sentiment, Draco returned Harry's expression of filtered amusement.

"I wonder if the wizards who write the history books will forget to mention how Harry Potter held a Malfoy git as he died."

"They'll remember."

"Why?"

"I'll make sure they do. And for the record, I'm not holding a Malfoy. I'm holding Draco."

He took the edge of his own robe and wiped the sweat from Draco's brow, taking time to tenderly tuck some blonde strands behind his ear. In response Draco gave him a look of contentment that almost transported Harry to a different time and place entirely.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Draco?"

"Tell Weasley that if he doesn't make an honest woman out of Granger and start raising a gaggle of half-breeds that I'll come back and haunt his ass."

Harry laughed. "Got it. Should one of them be named Draco?"

"No, it's a bloody stupid name."

"I kinda like it."

"You would."

Draco grimaced as another fit possessed his body, and both boys strengthened their holds on eachother. Harry kept the hand not supporting Draco's head firmly on his chest as if he somehow had the power to keep the heart beneath it beating forever.

When it ended he searched Harry's face as if trying to remember where he left off.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for killing Voldemort. I really hated that fucktard."

Strange as it was, Harry's eyes chose this moment to flood with the unshed tears.

"Don't mention it."

Draco saw and made a teasing face. "Gryffindork."

"Ferret face."

Draco raised his hand from Harry's collar and brushed his knuckles softly against the side of Harry's face.

"I think towards the end I might've loved you, Harry Potter. I wish I could've known for sure."

He lowered his arm once more.

"Leave it to me to tell you that now." He added in a wry voice.

Now the tears really did fall, and Draco raised his arm once more to swipe at the hot droplets as quickly as they slid down Harry's face in salty tracks.

"Leave it to you to have me say now that I _know_ I love you, Draco Malfoy."

Rather than the surprise he had expected to see in Draco's face, the only acknowledgment was a single tear that Harry hurriedly wiped away.

"That's the first time anyone's ever said that to me. I'm glad it was you."

When it appeared that he lacked the strength to keep his arm at such an angle to continue brushing away Harry's tears, he lowered his hand for the last time. Harry caught at it and interlaced their fingers before lowering it gently to Draco's chest.

"What timing we have." Draco commented dryly.

And then there was nothing more that could be said.

How much longer: whether it was hours or seconds, Harry did not know. Only that they both seemed to realize at the same time what was happening when it happened.

Harry hoped yet doubted it was somehow possible to convey even a fraction of emotion for what he felt for Draco in a mere smile.

"Goodbye, Draco. I'll miss you."

Nearly every emotion he had wished to convey was mirrored in the face of the Slytherin as he gazed back at the Gryffindor.

"You know I'll miss you more. See you, Harry."

And with that Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and was no more.

Harry sat there for a moment, cradling Draco's body as if it still contained something precious and was not nothing more than an empty shell.

Gradually he heard voices shouting to eachother outside in the hall. Aurors would be coming soon. Ron. Hermione. Dumbledore himself. But not Snape.

Shifting his weight Harry realized that he had not taken his eyes from Draco's Aristocratic face.

_Thou are not conquer'd, beauty's ensign yet  
Is crimson in they lips and in thy cheeks,  
And death's pale flag is not advanced there._

He found himself wondering if Draco would be offended that the words immediately brought to mind were those penned by a Muggle writer. He'd probably just be amused that he had the quote correct in the first place.

Alone in the court room and surrounded by death, Harry lifted Draco and clung to him in a way that he never had when he was alive.

He was confused momentarily until he realized the sobs shaking his body were in fact his own.

_Fin_


End file.
